Androstenol
by MomePiaf
Summary: 'An olfactory chemical signal released by an organism in order to attract a mate.' After months of grudging co-existence, attending the same highschool as Pink suddenly gets complicated - and infinitely more interesting. Mature themes and coarse language, rating will eventually change.


The beautiful cover art for this story is by Angiensca, an artist I'm eternally jealous of for her incredible style and ability to bring my favourite characters so perfectly to life! Check out her work and give her your love, she can be found on Tumblr.

This is my first piece of writing in over nine years, and I'm so excited to be back and to see how the fandom has evolved! This started out as a one-shot but I'd like to flesh it out if the interest for a multi-chapter story is out there, so please follow and leave a quick review if you'd like to see more and have any feedback on how you'd like this piece to develop. And most of all, enjoy!

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**Androstenol**

He knows when he starts to smell her in the hallways that their months of indifferent co-existence are over.

The realisation that she has a _scent _comes almost from nowhere. Sure, there's always been a certain fragrance he's associated with her, a scrap of data filed away in his brain from those rare moments he'd been forced to take the seat beside her in Chem 1. Sweet. Flowery. A headache-inducing concoction of aldehydes and ketones clinging to certain fixed points on her body, namely her hair and pulse points. So obviously some cheap drug-store perfume, he's mocked her for it in the past. Her chosen fragrance has varied somewhat over the course of the academic year – from fake flowers to fake fruits and back again _–_ but she's been exasperatingly consistent in her determination to smell more or less like a bag of fucking Skittles.

Until today, that is.

Olfactory memory is a complex thing, and has a tendency to become desensitised to certain stimuli which are encountered on a regular basis or over an extended period of time. So, while the Chemical X tainting his blood might have burdened him with painfully heightened senses, his experiences with public school have become steadily more tolerable as the months pass. He no longer cringes at or even notices the smell of tightly-packed bodies and stale cafeteria food which stinks up the hallways. Certain things always stand out as sharp accents against the now undetectable mire, the occasional whiff of BO from a nearby student, the sour smell that clings to the restrooms hours after some poor kid has chucked his lunch – nothing a human would struggle to pick up on. The regular attendance which gives him an edge academically over his brothers has had the added effect of fading his surroundings into a placid white noise around him, something for which he is quietly grateful.

Which is why, when he shoulders open the door to Chem 1 that morning, he is put immediately on edge_._

Freezing in the doorway, his pulse pounds in his neck as the chemicals in his blood sear his insides. It takes everything he has not to snap the pen he's holding in his pocket, so tight is his grip on it now as he struggles to process what's happening. His muscles twitch, straining insistently against his skin. He can feel a sheen of sweat start to form at his pits, on his back, in the palms of his hands.

_Danger. _

_No, not danger. Something else. Worse. _

It takes a moment to click, but he realises with a jolt that the source of sensory panic comes from the fact that the room smells completely off. As in, he can't actually smell it at all. They're supposed to be doing titrations this week and the teacher has already set out the hydrochloride and sodium hydroxide at the head of the room for students to collect, but the familiar acerbic notes which usually accompany an experiment of this kind are uncomfortably absent. He tries to focus, but everything that makes up the familiar environs of arguably his favourite classroom – the reek of factory-fresh plastic from the atomic models suspended from the ceiling, the sharp vinegary notes leaking from the cupboard labelled 'Hazchem', even the faded wetness of the gum under the seats – everything_. _Gone.

Obscured by something musky and stifling that, alarmingly, is starting to make his balls ache.

He barely has time to panic over the growing tightness in his jeans and what the _fuck _is happening to him before he hears a polite cough from over his shoulder and realises he's been blocking the door. He ducks out of the way and toward the nearest free seat with a muttered apology, trying to get it together. His blood is still pounding white-hot through him, making his whole body throb, and he's getting harder by the second. _Shit shit shit._

This isn't the first time he's had a hard-on, but in class? In fucking Chem 1? He feels like putting his fist through the desk, but he knows it's the only thing hiding his discomfort from the rest of the class. From _her. _His eyes scan the room and he spots her near the front, long hair braided up, exposing the pale skin of her neck. With his keen eyes he can see her jugular is racing.

She knows.

He holds his stare and he can see her body stiffen in response, notices the soft downy hair on her arms stand on end, but her eyes stay forward, ignoring him. He inhales sharply, his temper flaring as quickly as his arousal had, irrational and all-consuming. The scent hits the back of his throat and fuck's sake now he's _salivating, _and he knows, somehow, he just _knows, _that it's coming from her.

He's on his feet and making his way over to her before he can stop himself, tossing his bag at her feet and sliding into the seat beside her just as the bell for class rings. Their teacher quirks a questioning brow but doesn't ask him to return to his seat, and as soon as her back is turned he leans across so he's inches from the redhead's ear, the scent clinging to her skin now engulfing him.

'What the _fuck _have you done?' he hisses, grasping the back of her chair. The cheap plastic creaks in his grip. She finally looks at him, eyes wide and round. She has the nerve to look confused.

'What are you talking about?'

His eyes flicker to her chest, a tiny bead of sweat breaking free of her collarbone and disappearing beneath the neckline of her shirt. He can smell every inch and crevice of her body, the sweat collecting in all those dark, damp places she tries so desperately to hide underneath her lumpy sweaters. It's not her usual cheap perfume, it's something saltier, muskier, just shy of sour. Humid and milky. Underneath that there's a symphony of chemicals he can't even pick apart, they hit his nervous system with such ferocity it makes his head reel. The chemical X in his blood is singing and it feels as though his atoms might shake apart, and the last time he'd felt something close to this he'd almost died.

'Cut the crap,' he grits, fighting to keep his voice level. 'I can smell it on you. Is it Antidote X?'

He knows the professor has experimented on the girls in the past, trying to amplify their powers, immunise them against certain weaknesses. He usually sticks to tech, weapons and armour and so on, but tampering with their chemical make-up is not beyond his capabilities. The girls are strong but they've never been invincible. Fuck knows Mojo has injected the Rowdyruffs with enough crap over the years in pursuit of the same goal. Immunity against Antidote X has always been of the highest priority – what else could explain such a drastic change in her, and his own body's violent response?

But the look she gives him next is not defensive, only irritated. Stealing a sideways glance at the teacher, she ducks her head closer to his, voice low. 'Smell _what _on me?'

And yeah, exactly, smell fucking what? What the hell is he supposed to say? _For some reason I can tell you didn't shower this morning. _And shit, but he can tell. The points on her body where she smells heady and ripe, where her deodorant can't quite mask the smell of skin that's been lived in for at least a day, snatch at his senses like white flares on a heat map. He can almost _feel _the beads of salt moisture collecting on her skin, pooling in those sweet spots on the female body he only lets himself think about at night when he knows his brothers are asleep.

Beneath her breasts. In the creases of her thighs. Between her legs.

He thinks back to when they covered reproduction in freshman biology. Nights spent rote-learning definitions in the event of a pop quiz, determined not to give Pink the edge in class. Brightly-coloured flashcards scribbled with long words and even longer explanations. Spermatozoa. Natural selection. Oestrus. Bateman's principle. _Pheromone._

_An olfactory signal released by an organism in order to attract a mate and initiate sexual intercourse or other functions related to reproduction. _

'Shit.'

The last thing he notices before there's a hand on his shoulder is her eyes go wide and her mouth fall open to give too-late warning. The teacher's lecture on paying attention in class barely registers, her voice reaching him slowly, as if wading a distance through static. He's preoccupied with the pink powder puff's eyes, dusky and deep pink and – and -

And darkened by an undeniable dilation of the pupils.

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Leave a quick review if you'd like me to develop this into a multi-chapter work! And make sure to follow for updates, if I do continue the rating will definitely change. Thanks so much for reading!


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